


Eternal Weakness

by BARALAIKA



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Birthing, Body Horror, Cannibalism, Guro, Intersex, M/M, Mpreg, Other, Stillbirth, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-20
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2019-08-04 21:16:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16354448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BARALAIKA/pseuds/BARALAIKA
Summary: There's always been a void in him. It's just a shame these are the lengths it takes to fill it.





	Eternal Weakness

**Author's Note:**

> Something of an expansion on my previous baby eating fic (words you don't get to type every day). What if Vergil, in all his idiocy wherever his brother is concerned, decided to allow their spawn to grow?
> 
> Well... here ya go. Don't say I didn't warn you, eh?

He allowed it to fester in his body. Sick fascination fuelled him, a consumption in his brain that left him shuddering and sick but so utterly _enamoured_ with the possibilities of what he could produce that he let it happen.

 

Would it be beautiful?

 

 

What Vergil laboured out of his body was hideous.

 

He looked down at the creature with a curled lip of disgust as it did not even squall for its first breath. Its lips burbled… and stilled. Outside of his body, there was no hope for it. But Vergil simply watched, impassive, as it turned blue around the plates and flakes of barely developed scales and stopped its first and only struggles.

 

To think that he had ruined his cunt for such a horrible little beast.

 

They were still connected, but the thought of touching the umbilical cord of this cursed, strange-looking monster repulsed Vergil right down to his core. So he sat back and pushed, to try and will the placenta along, wincing at a vulgar squelch. The whole process was so undignified that it made him sick. He so despised to defecate in the first place, resenting his bodily needs and how vile they were; this simply felt like an advanced form of it, dialled up to a thousand and made worse by the introduction of life. The mess of it all… the mess of living, the mess of _existence_ , the mess that caused it and the mess he sat in, all of it, he hated it. Were it he could drain his body of blood and mucus, become a creature of chitin and energy, a body of lava and power… but no. He was cursed to wither and _rot_.

 

Vergil gritted his teeth.

 

With a stomach-turning _slop_ , the placenta fell from Vergil’s stretched, swollen cunt and pooled alongside his spawn. Between his legs looked like a horrific wound, bloodied and swollen where the infant’s bulbous head had torn his cunt into a gash and bled, bled, _bled_ until he healed over and ballooned up. His previously neat lips felt a thousand times their size and his bladder simply leaked when it had contents, messing and mussing him further until he all he could do was seethe. He’d managed to pull his cock and balls off to the side well enough to keep them there, partially pinned by his thigh— never before had Vergil left himself so exposed for so long, nor even acknowledged the presence of his second set of genitals for more than a moment… well. Save having them split apart by solid cock, then again by spawn.

 

He panted for breath and let his head fall back, sweaty and scourged, naked beneath the eyes of God and Hell and ready for his punishment for the sin between his knees.

 

_Look upon what I have created in affront to your grace. And watch what shall befall it._

 

Everything was cold by the time Vergil had the courage to look down at the mass of flesh and viscera that he'd shat out of his morgue of a womb.

 

Wisps of white hair. Glassy blue eyes. Froth on its lips. The stumps of horns grew awkwardly from the sides of its head, blackened bone visible under translucent skin. Vergil sneered— _that_ was what had hurt so badly on the way out. The needled tips of teeth already pierced its gums and a mottle of demonic skin battled for swathes of smooth, bone-pallid human skin, especially concentrated around swells and protrusions of bone that seemed far too large for it. Now dry, some of the demonic skin cracked and pulled apart to expose flesh below that would have glowed.

 

Red, but not with blood.

 

_Of course. He has to taunt me, even now._

 

His eternal weakness.

 

No matter how many times he said that it was the last, that he would never tolerate it again, Vergil gave in eventually. It was when he’d forgotten how good he could feel with a cock inside him, how good he could feel being the one pressed down for once—

 

_Foolishness._

 

Even free of his burden, he felt nothing but weight. He stared down into his brother’s child’s dead doll’s eyes and felt… nothing. It was just meat, grown inside his barren body. Something for consumption. Something that was never going to be and that he’d never even _wanted to be,_ surely? Whatever was he going to have done with it if it had cried and reached for him for comfort and protection? He wouldn’t have been able to give that to it, either.

 

Shakily, Vergil sat up and groaned, still so sore despite regeneration working away at his womb. His head spun as he looked down more directly at his bastard, forced to confront its bloody, sticky corpse and what it awakened in him. Slowly, he reached down and turned its warped head towards him to look it in the eyes— they were identical, the ghostly blue of death shared between father and offspring. Those teeth. Those horns. That hide. It could not be left to be found.

 

He closed his fingers around the head and lifted its body to his other hand, so huge in comparison. No. Vergil would never have been able to nurture another creature. With a grip on its feet, he twisted the body around so that a limp arm jutted out awkwardly towards him… and rose it to his mouth. He pushed the image of its fused fingers out of his head as he opened his jaws and tore the soft limb off of the rounded monstrosity-body, then chewed. Soft bones barely even crunched, only bent until they gave and tainted blood flooded back into his mouth. He went in for another mouthful, this time out of the side where rib and belly met.

 

All it was… was taking back something he had just lost.

 

That’s what Vergil told himself it felt like as he chewed on squelching innards and their tarry, black contents. Fresh meat born of sin sated him, in place of the decay that he usually thrived on; it hit his stomach like some kind of gift from the heavens, soothing the ache that plagued him every moment of his life and cleared his mind with a white, beautiful, blissful nothingness as long as he chewed.

 

Vergil chewed

 

and chewed

 

until the meat

 

in his mouth

 

 _was paste_.

 

He moaned when he swallowed without realising it and dipped his head for another bite, completely involuntary. Empty-headed for the first time since childhood, Vergil finally knew what ecstasy was. Energy came to him as he consumed, as he tore fragile tissues and crushed tacky scales and panted for breath around blood and meat; nothing went to waste, nothing was thrown away. Vergil consumed it all as if he had been starving for centuries.

 

_Is this enough?_

 

He was a Glutton, he knew it. He was paying his price in flesh, in his own son, his own blood and it was not until the head remained and his teeth sunk through the skull that what he did dawned upon him. A violent, sudden surge of sickness washed over him and Vergil heaved before he could suppress it. A great wave of vomit spewed across his hand and down himself, a slurry of meat and bone and gristle and blood that made him retch more and more as it splattered across the ground and slid from his hand, from the last of what he held.

 

An eye peered out beside his thumb, accusing him, _hating him_.

 

Yet the moment it left his body became the moment he needed it more. Vergil’s face screwed up as he scooped his vomit back into his mouth off of his chest, but it was not enough for him: he dropped forwards to shovel the cooling mess on the floor back into his face as the void in his stomach and soul yawned back open. He choked on it as it went back down and came back up, a hideous see-sawing of will that culminated in sucking at the ground as he cradled the half-head in his hand by his belly, protecting it from himself.

 

_What am I?_

 

How many years and still, he did not know. Would a demon do this as willingly, as coldly? Or was this a human cruelty? His eyes rolled back in his head as his chest tightened and he looked down into his hand.

 

_How… could I?_

 

Because… this is what he was now. Caked in filth and puke and eating the fruit of his own womb as if it were nothing more than an animal.

 

_Did you ever have a soul?_

 

Was he capable of creating anything that had one? Or would they all be as devoid as him?

 

It was just too dangerous to leave anything that could be salvaged of the beast. A shard of the skull of Sparda’s blood was enough to cause havocin the wrong hands and so, Vergil brought the remains to his mouth to finish his grisly work.

 

_I’m sorry… Dante._

 

Cells were cells and tissue was tissue. Meat was meat, all pointless in the end, be it fresh or old.


End file.
